and I'll always love you
by incense-whiskers
Summary: it doesn't matter that she'd chew off her left arm for the boy, he turned his back on her and it burned/on talking before you've thought it over/ GilraenxAragorn, family


_disclaimer: I don't own the products or services related to LOTR or JRR Tolkien, this is merely an exercise in creativity_

_author's note: au look at a dysfunctional family; also I've noticed in a lot of books (LOTR, HP, Odin and Loki etc) that the children you hope to save you are often lied to – to protect them of course, and while one can argue this until the moon is blue, I don't believe that it works well; as well there is the problem of speaking before you've given the matter any thought at all (I have problems with this)._

_summary: it doesn't matter that she'd chew off her left arm for the boy, he turned his back on her and it burned/on talking before you've thought it over/ GilraenxAragorn, family _

* * *

><p>She was promised to a boy from the village beyond, his own father a smith and he was apprenticing under him. It was a fine summer, the wheat grew tall and the garden sprouts pushed up from the earth like the dwarves in the stories she heard whispered from travellers underneath the glow of the sun. Already her skirts were being lengthened, a home being built – one with empty rooms she and her betrothed would fill.<p>

She wasn't supposed to go with him, but his father was there to chaperone and this was the great faith of her people; the seers and the elves and the forsaken monsters who ran off with their sheep and their children at night.

Nonetheless, she was there when the orcs attacked and the ragged few made it through to the hidden valley in the mountains, and she carried the baby next to her heart.

...

The roads are not safe yet, the elves say grimly, we will harbour you until then.

The few men who are left go out with the fair skinned elves with pale eyes and their bows, and she remains behind with the infant. Her promised future is shattered but she pushes it back and sits with the child in the garden and introduces him to grass and soft rose-petals.

He wears a gummy smile with she tickles his foot just so, and his head curls into the curve of her throat and her collarbone with ease.

...

The elves will keep the baby. He is practically family, the great-descendent of the brother of the Lord of Rivendell.

They will keep Gilraen too. She is of the child's line, no matter how distant, and humans and elves are not the same, no matter the great grace of their kings-blood.

"I do not know his name." she reminds them, frightened that her home may be decimated and frightened that these people would ask her to stay for such a important task.

"We will call him Estel." Elrond says quietly before the men of her company can say anything.

She does not weep when they leave.

...

Gilraen does not note the passage of time the way she used to, time is like the water in the fountains and like the elves, she regards it as such. She makes a point of celebrating a birthday for Estel (the day he was entrusted to her) each year as she had done as a child, and every milestone of his growth is celebrated.

He is particularly proud of his ability to out-pace Glorfindel, and does so at every opportunity when he has gotten into mischief.

...

The eat with the quasi-family of Rivendell's master: Elrond and Erestor and Glorfindel; the orc-hunters too when they come back to the halls of their father. There are smiles and stories and laughter and scolding, but Gilraen likes it best when she is at her small loom in their rooms and Estel speaks about the adventures he has had this day.

His coming of age is celebrated, but it does not truly register. She helps him move into his own rooms and he visits in the evenings.

...

Estel's face is thunderous, even from the distance she is at she can see. There are people following behind him and they are struggling to keep up.

Elrond is, as usual, ever calm and controlled. His words bring no peace and even she pales at the truths told, truths that she had no comprehension of.

She is less prepared at Estel – no, Aragorn's, words when they come. They are like lances and Gilraen is not meant to be a shield-maiden. She smoothes her skirts, eyes her foster-son with an anger she will not speak and leaves.

...

There are many gardens in Rivendell – for cooking, for Erestor's inks, for Elrond's many remedies, for the dyes Gilraen carefully brews and dips her material into. It is a rare day when she can roam in a garden and do little more than admire it and pull an errant weed.

But she is not there when Aragorn comes to apologize for his harshly spoken words.

Frost has fallen in the gardens, and Gilraen has retreated.

...

She is thankful for the elves.

There are no whispers, no glances. Only an understanding that surpasses the grace her own people would have given her. As always, there is work to be done and Gilraen busies herself with it.

Eventually, a curious visitor arrives to Rivendell and she is asked to assist him as he is getting to be quite aged.

"Come in, come in!" the curious little person says with a wide grin. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End."

...

Bilbo is not quite as happy as he would make others believe. Gilraen says nothing when he has a fit, only does not turn her back on him and plys him with chamomile tea. There is a sorrow lurking behind the lines of his face and the brightness of his smile. He has taken to eating dinner with her in the great dining hall and asks no questions about Striders or the lineage of the great white king-city to the east.

Gilraen is thankful.

...

She is there when they all return, the strange assortment of hobbits and her lost son, but Aragorn is older now and he seeks out the arms of Rivendell's cherished daughter. In the depths of her garden when she tends to her plants, she catches sight of them and she smiles over the worry in her heart.

...

"I do not often ask for a favor." she says, and Elrond smiles. Gilraen knows the stories of rest being found in the peaceful lands in the west and the elves who are departing are only too pleased to escort her to her destination. Her charge is torn between delight and despair but she spends time instructing her replacement on the care of one Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End.

She is sent off with their blessings and a number of names she is to call upon when she gets there.

...

Tom Bombadil is quite the character.

Gilraen is still quite glad when she leaves the Goldberry's house.

...

She is older still, there are crows-feet around her eyes and a slight shuffle of her feet when she's tired. Gilraen remembers the elaborate plaits that the grandmothers used to wear in her village and she wears her greying hair with pride.

These days she tends her garden with her students and spends times with apprentices and their own looms.

Mostly, she spins out in the sunshine and keeps an eye on the children who all call her Grandmother.

...

His face blocks out the sun, and Gilraen squints as she wipes the dirt of her hands. Her tumeric needing some care today (all of her yellow dye giving plants did, unlike her own home and that of the elves, yellow was an especially popular colour with the inhabitants of the Shire) and she was a reluctant to leave this delicate kind of work with her students.

"Mother," he says. He is so much taller than she remembered, and broader in the shoulders. His face wears lines that only experience gives and while the cloth on his back is princely, the boots on his feet are sturdy and well-worn. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Gilraen says. She remembers the foolish things she had done as a child, and the forgiveness her mother had granted.

A mother knows.

...

She has no desire to leave her green fields and hobbit grandchildren. The great towers of Gondor are not for her, she says as she watches her son's children chase each other through the garden.

Aragorn is not happy.

"The Shire is a long way from Gondor," he says. "What if you were to need me?"

In the corner with the youngest child, Arwen smiles at Gilraen's exasperated look.

"I am well tended to here," the foster-matriarch assures. "And it is so endearing because they don't even know that they are doing it."

...

At the edge of the river where his party will cross, Gilraen stands with her family.

"Send letters," she asks and worries about the greying sky. "Travel safely."

Aragorn's arms are still long, and they wrap around her tight.

...

"Settle down," she says mildly as she enters the gate. Her grandchildren and students and her many neighbours are like a great flock of birds. "I'm home."


End file.
